


Homecoming

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: Blaine considers becoming a teacher at Dalton.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

Mr. Anderson.

It has a nice ring to it.

Propping his chin more comfortably in his hand and gazing fondly at the canary perched high on one of the tall wooden bookshelves, Blaine whistles a few notes to her, watching as she tilts her head downward to regard him. The window is open, but only a hair, enough to let the sweet summer breeze in without risking his newest quarry's escape. She stares at him in resolute silence for a moment before hopping forward and twittering back, a high, chirpy chord that makes him smile.

It's easy to like it here. Whereas cutthroat competition and quiet subversion were rightly at home at NYADA, Dalton appreciates people across a broader scale, welcoming new students into its arms eagerly. In addition to student fairs and other activities, the Warblers always put together and perform a stellar series of mash-ups and pop covers to entice new voices, and curfews are relaxed for the first two weeks to encourage socializing between old and new students. It's invigorating to step into the fresh new world without a history to impede him. From the moment he crosses the threshold, Blaine receives only cordial respect and eager inclusion.

Despite his role as a supervisor and not a participant, inclusion doesn't cease at the Warbler's Hall. He worries in the weeks leading up to the transition that he'll regret agreeing to take on the position -- that the nostalgia will cripple him and make him long for the frantic energy of New York even more acutely -- but his fears prove utterly unfounded. They've changed in the years since he's been a member, but their seriousness dissolves into boyish excitement the moment that he enters the Hall. He learns names and shakes hands and listens to countless stories about boys he's never met but already feels oddly at home with, demanding and receiving excellence from them with every tell me more. He quickly realizes that the blazer is more than a uniform -- it's a bond -- and as far as fraternities go, Blaine knows that he'd be hard-pressed to find a better one than that of the Warblers.

Respecting the difference between sharing their space and being a Warbler, Blaine doesn't wear a blazer at the introduction and subsequent meeting. He's somewhat ashamed to admit that he still has his old one. Despite how precious it is to him and how comforting it's been in an era of grief, it feels too private to share with them, too valuable to unearth it from his closet and wear it in their midst. The feeling that he's chasing something that doesn't belong to him prevails and he avoids it instead, bypassing the feeling too much like reclamation of a thing that is no longer his.

So Blaine doesn't anticipate it when the boys surprise him, presenting him with a new one on the first Friday of the year. His mouth runs dry as he accepts the new blazer, sleeker and bolder than the original (or, a gentle voice reminds, simply newer, without the years of wear to mar its complexion). It fits neatly around his shoulders and comfortably down to his sleeves, and even wearing a sky-blue button-down shirt with a bow tie, it looks perfect on him, his reflection flushed and beaming as he stares at it in the mirror. Unapologetically flustered and touched by the gift, he tries to refuse it, halfheartedly reaching up to push it off his own shoulders before the protests begin.

Finally, once they've all had their say -- and certainly, Blaine's hands tremble with emotion but only visible to him -- he accepts the gift quietly.

Glancing fondly at the blazer folded over the chair across from him, Blaine taps out a light rhythm on the desk with his pen before setting it to the paper and signing his name.

Blaine D. Anderson.

Coach.

It has a nice ring to it.

Breathing out slowly, he methodically folds the paper into an envelope before setting it aside for safekeeping. Later he'll make copies before sending them out to the various competition judges, verifying each of the Warblers as legitimate participants; for now, he leans back in his chair and listens to his canary sing, high and clear above him.

It's easy to get lost in the song, easy to forget the months of anguish and tribulation that have led to this golden twilight. He remembers all too vividly the slow, painful weeks of falling apart: waking up in the middle of the night alone and panicked because Kurt Kurt Kurt what happened what happened are you okay Kurt what's wrong what'd I do and having to stagger into the kitchen and grab the counter, gasping for air as invisible demons taunted him.

Brow furrowed, he spins the chair slowly to face the window, letting the mid-afternoon sunlight play across his face and focusing on his breathing. He hasn't mentioned the dreams in therapy yet, even though he knows that openness is the first step to healing. He can't: can't admit that night terrors of an intensity he hasn't seen since the six months after the Sadie Hawkins dance still plague him; can't share his demons with the light, knowing how feeble they'll be; can't put a name to his own shortcomings.

It's easier to lie awake, cold and gasping, then it is to stare into the face of another person in broad daylight and admit, Sometimes I wake up screaming and don't know how to remember what's real again.

He knows how hurt Kurt is, and he knows how Kurt has been hurt in the past, and he tries to put both these pieces of knowledge to rest as much as he can. It isn't healthy to define himself by how well he's pleasing Kurt; no one can please indefinitely, and Kurt has never pretended to be anything but himself.

_I can't do this anymore._

Blaine stares out at the grounds, peaceful, unperturbed, and wonders how it's possible for everything to feel so right and so wrong at the same time.

Pav twitters on the desk beside him and he startles, looking over at her and smiling as he holds out a hand carefully. She's still wary, cocking her head at it before hopping on, cheeping in surprise as he lifts his hand slowly away from the desk.

"You have a lot to live up to," he murmurs.

She chirps at him before taking off, fluttering up to the highest bookshelves once more, content in her makeshift cage.

It's roomier than her iron one, but Blaine still recognizes four walls when he sees them.

But oh, the fresh air is sweet, and the silence sweeter, and the room to breathe again like life itself.

He likes it here. It's different and he doesn't know exactly where he's going yet, but he likes being home again.

Watching Pav hop from shelf to shelf as the fading rays of sunlight chase her, he tries not to think about her predecessor and how fitting it is that both he and the relationship he involuntarily started are gone.

_I'm someone, too._

_I was mine before I was ever his._

Maybe, he thinks, he can find that part of himself that existed before Kurt here.

Whether he succeeds or not seems irrelevant, in this calm, quiet space. All he needs to be is himself.

The rest will come, in due time. The storms will pass. The stars will shine.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
